"We have forgotten how to be good guests-- how to walk lightly on the Earth as its other creatures do."

~ Barbara Mary Ward

Vienna, Austria

May 14th, 2005

"Thank you, Mercy." The ageing man responded to the nurse. The falter in his voice had still not recovered from the peculiar events of the previous month. What had brought around the unexpected transformation in the great and proud Mr Aldrich Hunter was unknown to most. How could such an arrogant, power-hungry beast be so humbled over a few mysterious days? But everyone knew it had something to do with Nixie. Phoenix Landskein. His bombshell of a second wife. Unlike Mr Hunter and his son, she never returned to the mainframe, and no one knew where she was.

Neo Hunter took the chair on the other end of the fine dining. The table was older than the portrait of the Mona Lisa, spanning nine feet and carved with fine, intricate details from head to toe. The delicacies were not abundant enough to cure the hunger of an entire state anymore. Only what was required was served, and nothing went to waste. Neo ensured that was the case, and no one had any objections to raise. Perhaps it all had to do with the generational transfer of authority from father to son, most people believed.

But Neo Hunter knew better. Neo Hunter knew firsthand what had brought around the radical transformations in the Hunter household. It had everything to do with Mrs Phoenix Landskein, his enigmatic stepmother.

Sighișoara, Romania

April 9th, 2005

That bitch. Neo Hunter rolled down the haystacks piled so high atop one another. How could she? Neo always knew Phoenix Landskein was up to something, but everyone refused to believe him. But with hands tied against a coir rope and rashes of his allergy presenting themselves on his pale skin, Neo knew that was his best chance to prove his suspicions right before everyone. Phoenix Landskein was a gold-digger bitch.

Vision yet to be stable, Neo raised himself to stand, gaining support from his elbows and knees. The whole world spun around him, dizziness almost throwing him into another long daze. But Neo was desperate not to lose consciousness once again-- he slammed himself against the wall in the hopes of steadying his composure, his head held tight between his arms to squish some sense into him. Neo felt his throat ache and his entire frame sweating, leaving his body devoid of moisture. He needed water. Lots of it. Quick breaths. Long breaths.

The barn doors opened with a rasp to reveal before him a courtyard left unchecked for years prior. Ferns and rust had reclaimed all the fences and adornments once white and lustrous. Hints of a winding path leading to an old estate hid beneath the extensive flora consuming whatever men built over its natural state. The tall stone manor at the end of the road-- made almost entirely of stone and iron-- was all too familiar for Neo Hunter. It was his childhood home.

July 1986

The nights were the hardest. So were the days, but the newfound solace of jabbering strangers at school offered Neo an odd comfort. Was there a name for the fear of dinners? But it wasn't the food that scared him. It was what came with it. The people. His family. Every time he heard his name being hollered from downstairs, every step he took towards the dining room-- it all took an act of courage.

Gripping silences. Heaviness in the air. Neo often attempted to not let his cutlery touch the dishes, to not produce the slightest noise so that his parents wouldn't notice his presence. He only left the table once his mom disappeared into the kitchen and his dad to the porch.

But some days, even his silence could not save the tumults which were to befall. Sometimes, it was a hair in the soup, sometimes a tad amount of extra salt in the bacon. But his father's outrage always shook the entire cabin to the core.

Neo never looked at his father when that happened. He looked at his mom. How her eyes were shut, and a lonesome tear caressed her folds. How her palms clutched the dress she was wearing. Before long, when his father disappeared into another room, Gaia always asked Neo to go to his room. And there, he would sleep to the muffled cries of his mother in the place of lullabies, pillows tight against his eyes and ears to tuck himself into dreams where everything was alright.

April 9th, 2005

The rashes grew bigger and redder with the passage of every minute. Unable to find anything sharp and steady, Neo headed to their old kitchen, hoping to find something to free himself. But it was empty. Hollow. The fire and aura had long settled into smoke and filth. That was when he heard a cry from the floor above. Father. Rushing atop the stairs, Neo shouldered open the doors to their old bedroom.

"Finally. You're awake." Phoenix Landskein was a woman of stature, or at least she possessed the charm of someone alike. There she stood, at 5"7', holding what seemed to be a leash made of the creepers from the grounds-- stains of red embellishing the light green of the stem. His father lay on his chest atop the busted cot, his bare back adorned with streaks of blood as he struggled to flee his chains. His restraints were not coir, but cold iron, leaving him zero chance of escaping the onslaught.

Phoenix walked up to Neo, stopping only a few inches away. Neo wanted to back up, but the notion of her kicking him down from the foyer persuaded him to keep his ground. The whip safe in her right hand, Phoenix stared right into his soul-- her green eyes threatening to claw out his deepest fears. In the end, a smile. She took his arms and twined her palms around the coir ropes, only for the yarns to magically untangle themselves, freeing him from its clutch. She passed the leash to his hands, whispering to his ear, "Careful."

As Phoenix strolled down the stairs, Neo ran to his father to help him escape. He needed something to break the chains apart, and soon upon his search, he found all the utensils from their old kitchen on the bedside table, spread neatly on a wet towel. And while picking up the hammer, Neo noticed how his rashes had faded into his skin, no longer inducing an allergic reaction.

But before he could carry his father out somewhere safe, Neo felt the temperature rising around him. Fire. He walked faster only to nearly slip over the stairs, losing the clutch over his father. His rather plump figure tumbled down the stairs, and for a moment, Neo was afraid he had marked the end of his father's life. But the day had other intentions, not a life being lost, though the stone-cold manor collapsed in on itself, leaving no reminiscence of the world Neo once knew.

Vienna, Austria

May 14th, 2005

Putting his father to sleep and piling a heavy blanket atop his fragile frame, Neo walked out of his bedroom to the cold verandah. Phoenix Landskein was never found after that day. Even the most capable investigation teams couldn't gather a clue as to where she was. And the non-cooperative silence of the father and son only led to more and more suspicions and never a proper answer.

But whenever Neo brought around a change in his father's allocation of wealth for the better, the trees and animals seemed to bow before him. The sun seemed to shine brighter on the days' Neo had felt his best. And on the days when Neo felt despair, the clouds taught him to let his tears fall. And whenever he reminisced about his mother, he felt the air tug him into a warm embrace. The leash no longer had the stains of blood, but it bloomed and flowered in the courtyard of their home.

Neo knew what had happened to the Hunter household. It had everything to do with Mrs Phoenix Landskein.

#####

I struggled with writer's block for a long while in between, and I'm sure a lot of people out there has the same issue. I'd never been much of a pantser and had always leaned to more plotting tendencies, and thus reading upon and listening to a lot of storytelling theory and experimenting with a lot of techniques, I'm figuring out an outline to help me with the task. It's not rigid, it's arbitrary, it's constantly changing, and it helps me gain more insight into the stories I want to write, and helps me explore what all I could incorporate into them. And I thought this could be somewhat helpful for someone out there too (: So, I'm sharing the outline I used to write this story here, and... hope it helps!

Outline: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1l0Rc2EuvqCKDFnmw-Z6wv5yXSWdZTDa9aqVUS51F28o/edit?usp=sharing

*****

Shoutout

[cuz it feels like a wholesome thing to do (: Also, these will be some of Prose's best, so keep an eye on them (:]

The Evil Series by @Danceinsilence

The Evil Series by @Danceinsilence feels like an episodic thriller with its division into separate books and parts. Featuring a team of cops with the primary focus on a divorced female law enforcement officer and single mother (with the most adorable son), Janis Baker, this series really justifies its title throughout its course... Trust me, no matter how humane a person you think you are, you'd root for some of these characters to suffer the most-brutish-deaths possible... The evil is constantly on the rise and the saviors are on a never-ending effort to keep the streets clean. Sacrifices, serial killers, assassins-- An over-arching threat, loved ones to protect-- this series will not give you a break! Do check it out!

*****

Instagram: (Um, I'll edit that in later...)

The world around me comes into view, but I must still be dreaming. My floral print comforter replaced by…hay? That can’t be right. Except it is. I close my eyes shut and open them again slowly, still here. I can remember strong hands wrapping around me and throwing me, hard. A piece of cloth covering my eyes and a pinch in my arm, they must have injected me with something. But who’s they. Regardless, I seem to be alone now so time to get my bearings. Mental check, my arms and legs are very bruised and there’s a crick in my neck, but nothing seems broken. Ok, good. Then the panic sets in…my mom.

We had just finished dinner at this small Italian restaurant near the house and were walking home. Me, my mom, and Richard, my stepdad. Stepdad seems odd since they’ve only been married about two weeks, but they had been dating about a year and it was expected. Just then, my stomach drops and the world around me feels blurry. I can recall Richard walking towards me when I was grabbed and thrown into a car. An SUV. A black SUV. I try to remember the little details keeping my mind on when I get home, hopeful that they can be used later to find the people responsible. I remember screaming help to him before one of the hands was covering my mouth, but he didn’t help. At first I was scared that he would also be grabbed, I mean who were these people? But he wasn’t grabbed. In fact, he was calm. If I’m not mistaken I think I remember a smirk.

But I must be remembering wrong. Richard works in finance, or insurance…or…banking, honestly I never paid too close attention, but he had a boring job. Definitely not someone that would have access to… thugs. It’s seriously the only word I can think of, and I know it sounds ridiculous, like I’m in some old-timey crime movie, but the point stands. Richard is a 9-5, suit wearing, family man with IBS. There’s no way he’s responsible for this. Whatever this is. Yet the image of him walking towards me with that creepy look on his face stays plastered in my mind.

I try to stand, slowly. Despite my many bruises, I manage to get to my feet and move around pretty easily. I think about the first time I tried to ski. I was with my friend Matt who had been going forever and I may have smudged the truth about my skiing knowledge. Long story short I rolled all the way down the mountain and was bruised from my chest down. When I hopped right up the instructor at the bottom had warned me that although it doesn’t hurt now, it will tomorrow. As I look down at my black and blue arms I know tomorrow will bring much more pain. It’s weird what you think about when you’re in traumatic situations.

I look around. There’s a rake-looking tool and some wooden stick up against the wall, and hay, lots of hay. A barn? I don’t know if I’ve ever actually been in a barn. Maybe when I was little and mom took me to some sort of pumpkin patch. Mom. I try to remember where she was when we walked outside, she must have been right next to me, right? Did someone grab her? I feel sick.

I’m on the verge of hyperventilating when I hear a moan coming from outside. A horse, or a pig? I truly know nothing about barn life. The moan again. This time it’s more distinct, a woman. Mom! I run outside. She’s lying on her side and there’s a nasty gash in her forehead. I drop down next to her. “He lied.” Suddenly I can’t find words, but apparently she can. “He said that we would never be involved, but he lied.” I swallow. “Richard? Involved in what?” There’s tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “I got us away. We should be safe here for now, but they’re going to come looking for us." Who, who is coming! I want to shout, but she is drifting back to sleep. I have no idea what's going on and my mom is in some sort of psychotic daze. There's a house next to the barn and I see a light on inside. On one hand I could be walking to doom, but on the other, if I don't get her a cold rag or some water soon...I walk up the porch steps and knock on the door.

I can feel the itchy ends of bone-dry straw eager to poke at my unexposed skin like merciless needles jabbing into my body.

Ah, needles. That sounds awfully familiar. I slowly crack open my eyelids and flinch at the burst of sunlight streaming in from the cracks of the wooden walls. The walls are a faded red and whatever bit of paint that’s left is peeling off like an ancient banana.

My fingertips are starting to tingle, and I can already move my toes, but I still can’t feel the rest of my body. Must’ve been injected with some sort of tranquilizer.

Sigh… I should’ve known having a nice and peaceful candlelight dinner with her was too good to be true. Even thinking about her leaves a bad taste in my mouth. The a-hole didn’t so much as give me a second glance for the first few months of her wonderfully convenient marriage to my wealthy father, but all of a sudden she flashes a smile in my direction and offers a freshly cooked homemade meal?

It’s not like I’m a complete fool. It’s just that I’ve always had a soft spot for home-cooked meals. They remind me of my real mama, the one who laughed like an angel, the one who found time to take me out even after a long, exhausting day of work, the one who showed me her love with every fold of the dough that magically turned into steaming hot, soft and chewy dumplings that made me feel warm inside out. She had the most comforting gaze, with those soft, brown eyes. Even when her gaze was sharp, the kindness behind her eyes shone through. That’s probably why my father chose to marry that ungrateful wench after we lost her. It’s all because she has my mama’s eyes… even I must admit they bear an uncanny resemblance, but I still think they also look nothing like my mama’s because they hold absolutely no warmth within them.

Aw s***, I can’t cry right now, I gotta make it outta here first. I’m starting to feel something rough tightly wrapped around my wrists and ankles and I feel stupid that I’m only just now realizing that I’ve been tied up. How long have I been here?

I still remember how I foolishly slurped up those soft and chewy noodles with exceptional gusto. Just as I had begun to raise my head to thank that woman, I caught a sinister grin plastered to her chalky face, and my eyes started to droop. Rough hands grabbed me from behind and dragged me across the floor, out the door, and into a musty old car that smelled strongly of cigarettes. The last thing I saw before I completely blacked out was her silhouette gradually enlarging as cloth blocked out the rest of my limited vision and I felt a sharp pinch jab into my right shoulder.

At last, the door of this wooden box I’m trapped in is slowly creaking open, and there it is again: her crooked silhouette coming into view.

“My, my, what have we here?,” her sickeningly sweet, honeyed voice slithered out of her mouth and trickled into my ears like poison, “Your eyes really do look just like hers…”

I let out a weak croak, “Whose?”

Her mocking expression suddenly shifts to one of crazed obsession, full of deranged possessiveness, “It’s a shame, really. As beautiful as they may have been, these eyes were already old when I first got them. It’s about time I got a new pair.”

Then it finally clicked. But I could do nothing to stop her as she lunged forward and dug her fingers into the only light left in my world.

From my peep hole in Mamma's belly button I could see the ocean of light within a dark circular surround. I'd like to think she has her bikini on and we're going to the beach. The one with the hillside and the swings and the thrilling slide. I love the homey sound of the water, the sifting gold of the sand, the windblown seagulls... Through this periscopic lens I can catch glimpses, every day, of my future, that which I am destined to forget. It usually happens at dawn and at twilight. The curtain lifts, and my peak into the outside involves mostly a view to and from the bed. It's dim and quiet, much like the womb I'm in. Except when we go into the water! Then my little room becomes an apartment. But today is different. The pattern is off. this is not the locker room. There's a man all dressed up in white. Ugh I hope that's not Dadda.  I'm starting to feel really lightheaded. It's scalding bright, and I hear clicking noises to the left and right, some clanking, and a persistent monotoned dialogue of voices I don't recognize. Whatever's coming through the placenta tastes bitter and I'm getting drowsy. I'm going to take a nap. Then I think I'll practice swimming again with Mamma when she gets up.

05.31.2023

Newly married Mother & Significant Other Barn Burning CotW CCXXVI

@Prose (Thanks Amanda B. Jaworski for the Challenge Prompt!)

Damn, I'm sore. At least I'm not sticky, broke AND confused, as the Diceman once said. Two out of three ain't bad, as Meatloaf said. At least not as bad as it could have been.

Where the hell am I? I look around in the twilight haze that surrounds me. The smell of hay and manure threatens to induce a sneeze, if not a gag. Nausea overcomes me as I try to orient myself.

A buzzing dominates my ears, but I cannot tell if the origin is within or without my head. I wonder if it even really matters. Immediately I feel I am alone, but I can sense others around me. I am not sure exactly how I do, but a presence -- nay, several presences -- make themselves known nearby.

A cold, wet against my bare arm causes me to recoil in reflex. A bleat follows. whew! Just a lamb. Nothing but a lamb.

Better than a lion.

More bleats answer the initial one. A cacophony of wool. I impress myself with the phrasing. What a metaphor.

My eyes eventually adjust to the dim light. I am not precisely sure where I am, but in the general sense I get it. I am in a barn.

The question is, whose?

Did she follow the directions as I had given them? Was I right in trusting her? Come to think of it, was I right in trusting myself?

A chuckle erupted from my lips, and the lamb nuzzled against me a second time. "Sorry," I said. "I don't have a treat for you."

Still, I scratched it behind the ear. It stood still in appreciation of the attention. I got it. I might do the same, depending on who was doing the scratching. If it was Gina, then definitely.

I attempted to stand up, but vertigo prevented it, at least for now.

Memories came. Sporadically, and in flashes, but there they were, nonetheless.

An image of a truck, being led to it, a blindfold presented to me. However, no panic accompanied the memories.

That's when I remembered a crucial piece of information regarding my abduction.

I was in on it.

In fact, I orchestrated it. With my stepmother.

Why does this sound like it might be the play by play of a porn scenario? Because it kind of IS like one?

My father -- bastard that he is (was?) -- married Gina recently.

Only, I could see the looks that Gina gave me, the lilt in her voice, the casual points of contact, her hand against my arm. Her body against mine as she squeezed by to get to the curtains to adjust them. Her breath clos to my mouth during the embraces of greeting and departing.

I sensed an attraction almost immediately. Well, by that I mean beside the one that I felt FOR her.

Reciprocity.

Such a great word. In sound, yes, but even better in deed or action.

Gina and I had enjoyed a near-instant connection from the first time I met her. However, things were difficult. After all, she was dating my father.

And I wanted to be a good daughter.

At least, I wanted to for all appearances. I could give fuck-all for being a good daughter for real.

After all, my father was a real piece of work. He was all smiles and good cheer whenever the public was involved, or when he met someone new. However, when it came to life at home, guy was an absolute asshole.

Wait. That's not harsh enough.

He was a fucking asshole, and there is no fate in Hell that is too cruel for him to suffer.

You see, death follows him, or is at least in part caused by him.

How I'm not dead yet is still unclear to me. Sincerely.

I have thought about my own death too many times to count. I even tried to effect it a couple times.

Okay. Five times. But who's counting?

He is. Bastard. He even uses it against me. Says it is reason to keep trying to make me right. Says he needs to fix me.

Fucker.

Actually, apropos word.

It makes me hate my older sister Harriet even more.

You see, she got out, despite all the bullshit. She escaped.

And here I am, still enduring the pain, the heartache, the headache, the abuse, the torture.

At least, until now, if Gina did what she was supposed to do.

I'm alive, so that's a good sign (is it?).

And I'm surrounded by barnyard animals. No blindfold any more. (It had to look good and convincing, in case the police got suspicious).

Other barnyard noises made themselves present. A little clucking, the grunt of a pig, the shuffling of hooves. Knowing that the bastard should be getting his due make the smell of intermingled manure all the more enjoyable.

Panic comes over me again. Am I safe?

Then another memory rises to the surface.

My father and I were abducted together. Again, to make sure that no suspicion went in the wrong direction. And Gina with a nasty scar across her forehead.

A sigh of relief.

Gina's image in my mind brought a sense of peace. She always has that effect on me.

I think she saw the way things were going to be earlier in the relationship than most of my father's girlfriends have over the years. It was obviously not apparent to me when I was younger, but now that I am in my final year of college, a lot that used to be obscured is now salient.

For years I thought I was the only one. Harriet clued me in otherwise, about a week before she left, I think for Europe. Maybe Canada.

There were times I still loved Harriet. Then there were the times I hated her. For leaving me with my father. Who I hated even more. Actually, it is inconceivable for me to consider hating anyone more than my father.

I refuse to call him Dad. or Father. There is no way that a) he was anything more than a sperm donor, and b) he deserved a capital letter associated with his name. Unless it was Asshole.

As an aside, I wish there were a word that captured exactly what he is/was, besides Asshole. If you have a suggestion, I am all ears. Cumstain? Blight? Pestilence? Abomination?

To say I hate him does the word hate a gross injustice.

And gross is an apt (though not apt enough) word to describe my father.

Anyway, I digress, and that does Gina a disservice.

Gina is one stand-up gal. (Who the fuck came up with gal, and thought it was an acceptable word?)

And, while I am on the subject of Gina, she is beautiful. Nay -- she is Hot. Sexy. Righteous. Girl-boss. Gas. Fire.

You name it. Whatever positive sobriquet you can assign to her, it will fall short (FAR short) of her actual awesomeness.

It was like she could sense my quandary, my predicament, my...impossible situation. Maybe she was enamored with my father in the beginning, but I think it became clear to Gina what sort of man my father was. (I hope it is was instead of is).

So a plan was put into action.

However, it required that both Gina and I would be above suspicion.

Some time into the relationship that Gina and my father engaged in, it became obvious that my father had not, nor would he ever, change his ways.

In other words, his desires for Gina at times manifested toward me.

There. I said it, after a fashion.

My father sought to dominate all the women in his life. My mother. My sister. Me. Now Gina.

Gina saw this early on, and in so doing became my savior.

Sometimes I wondered if my love for Gina was entirely about her, or if it was more about my rejection of my father, and in consequence my eschewal of all men.

Did it matter? Especially if it was about getting away from my father?

Hugs from Gina were the best. Not just the best I ever had, but the best I could imagine.

They elicited a desire in me I did not know I possessed.

My father convinced me that there was no other man who could love me the way that he did. Really what that did was convince me that I did not want the love of any man if the way he displayed it was indicative of what it meant.

Asshole.

Then there was Gina. And the looks she gave me. Were they maternal? Or were they something more? After all, she was only five years older than me, and beautiful as fuck. Hell, she was sexy as fuck.

I had never felt such desire in my life.

I'd like to think it was not just about escaping my father. But if I had to escape him, and I was born by him, then what about someone who had chosen to be with him? I can only imagine the shame and self-betrayal of one who fell for the charms and ministrations of my father the bastard.

So there I was (am?), with the animals around me, the smells of the barn around me, the twilight turning into dawn, which meant that clarity would ensure. Is it symbolic or literal?

Who gives a shit?

As long as it is a step in the right direction, it does not matter one fucking iota anything else.

So there I was. An abductee. My stepmother with a wound on her head. My sister in another time zone. My father hopefully dead. The lamb oblivious to all of it.

My only hope is this:

Whatever fate my father experienced, I pray that it was filled with as much pain and suffering as possible.

And I hope it continues for all eternity.

I liked his smile. It was warm, handsome, and kind. I could tell he really loved her. But then his face contorted into a leer, sallow cheeked, full of malice and greed. He smelled of things that made my head whirl. I heard myself screaming, vainly resisted the force of strong arms grasping me and shoving me sloppily into the car. I saw the needle in sharp relief against the dim surroundings, blindly felt it plunge cold into my arm. A chilled drowsy mist, an explosion of blissful relief, then everything swelled in bubbly waves before my eyes and I was gone.

Flitting in and out of consciousness were the same things. It nearly always ends in the shiny pointed needle, feeling weightless and blissful before dropping off again.

Everything is foggy, except the fire—lots of fire. Mounting up in endless towers, I feel the searing heat, scalding tongues of flame, choking fumes of smoke pouring from the ground and rising in billows to the skies. Even now, hardly conscious and aching all over, body limp and lifeless, heavy as lead—even now I feel the fire still. It scares me.

This is the closest I have come to myself since…I can’t even remember when. How long have I been living in that half-hearted dream, relieved by the needle? What even is living? How do I know?

My bleary eyes open onto another dreamy world, but this time my head is clearer. I feel my head swimming in pain and my weary limbs draped lifeless on the surface around me. I open my eyes once more and the fog slowly lifts. I can finally see things that I know to be real. I appear to be in a barn, but upon further investigation, I change my mind to an old warehouse. Tools clutter the table nearest me, neglected machinery stands rusting in the corner, and the smell of gasoline lingers in the air. A small library of leather-bound books fits on a low wooden shelf beside me. Sunlight streams in shafts through the cracks in the ceiling, bringing a feeling suggestive of eerie magic. I am alone.

I don’t know how long I remain before I remember. Mom! What did he do to her? I fly to my feet in a sudden rush of energy and stumble across the ground towards the door on the other side. Then I collapse. What was I going to do if I found her anyway? I can’t save her in the mess I’m in now. If anything, if by the blessed grace of God she was still safe, untouched, then my arrival would seal her doom. No, it is best that I remain here.

The sunlight slowly wanes, then returns, then wanes again for a long time. I grow tired of watching it, waiting for something to happen. Yet no one enters this place. What now? I ask myself. I leave that unanswered, and the day’s monotony continues uninterrupted.

After the third day, I take it into my mind to read. Then at least I will be entertained for a little while. I desperately hope that whoever owns this warehouse has a copy of Shakespeare in their library. Wait a minute: Since when did I start caring about ancient poetry? I guess I just forgot about it.

To my utter disappointment, there is no Shakespeare among the leather-bound collection—nor any other renowned work. They appear to be a series of journals. I pick one out from the left side of the shelf and look around me warily before I open it and begin reading. Not that I expect anyone to come in, since everything about this place screams it’s been abandoned long ago. My eyes find the first entry.

4 Jan, 2002

Dear Diary,

Man, people really need to change how they begin writing in these things. Oh well. I received you as a birthday present from Davy this morning. Mother says I should get in the habit of writing my feelings down before settling into bed, and Davy was kind enough to get you for me—telling everyone about my emotional issues in the process. I’ll get back at him tomorrow. It’s his birthday today too, and the least we can do is give Mother no trouble from us for at least 24 hours. I got him that red spinny top he’s been eying for the past month ever since it came into Fred’s. He was thrilled, but something told me he expected it. Not complaining though: never have, never will. How to I feel? Cold. I can hardly feel my feet. Better scoot off to bed before it gets worse. I’ll write again tomorrow.

Sincerely,

Ralph Notting

My eyes halt at the signature: Ralph Notting. Then my eyes burn with hot angry fire. This was the man that married Mom, took me captive for numberless hours, or weeks—perhaps even months. As much as I want to run and scream, burn with vengeance against my captor, I restrain myself. His journals are the only source of entertainment I have. Maybe if I read on, I will find his reasons for committing such atrocities, find a way to Mom, wherever she is now. I grit my teeth and read the next entry.

5 Jan, 2002

Dear Diary,

I promise, I’ll come up with a good start that’s not the girlish “Dear Diary,” but for now I have more important things to discuss. I got back at Davy today, much to the detriment of Mother. I never realized how deeply she cared about him, even for something as little as his weird quirks. You see, Davy has an inexplicable obsession with classifying everything he finds—from recording the names of each individual shade of green in the house to spending hours figuring the exact shape of a Rubik’s cube. He insists that, contrary to the name, it’s NOT a cube. Anyway, since he told everyone that I have emotional issues, I made a poster of his face and a Rubik’s cube with the words “It’s not a cube!” then set it up on the front of the grocery store. By midafternoon, everyone knew about it. Davy was furious. I was laughing crazy with Kent and Kitty, but Mother was in tears. She told me that Davy was sensitive, and I couldn’t tease him like most other kids. I didn’t understand, but I did feel a twinge of guilt that hasn’t gone away. I wish I could take it back. I’m going to go out early tomorrow morning and take down that poster.

Sincerely,

Ralph Notting

In the following entries, Davy wouldn’t come out of his room for weeks. When he finally did, he ignored Ralph’s continued apologies. Serves him right, I think, That was disgustingly rude.

I slowly read my way through the years, through the books. Days, weeks pass. I get to know Ralph extraordinarily well. His brother Davy fell into alcoholism, then his high school girlfriend introduced him to drugs. They disappeared for a while and then he emerged alone years later with a daughter named Joanna. Unfortunately, she fell into his way of life early on, cycling between drugs and alcohol and sexual abuse. I pity her immensely. That’s no way for a girl to live, never knowing any better. Then Ralph met Mom.

21 July 2018

Dear Diary,

Wow. Emotional overload is in full “go” mode. I met a beautiful young woman in the office today and I can’t stop thinking about her. I’ve never felt so free in my life, but I really need to slow my roll. I’ll never forgive myself if I plunge headlong into this love when she’s already in a relationship with someone else. I don’t want to be the cause of any more mischief. For now, I can only wait until I see her again and get to know her better. I think I’ll ask her out for a lunch date with some friends.

Heartsick,

Ralph Notting

The next significant entry about her was about a week later.

29 July 2018

Dear Diary,

Her name is Aurora. She’s widowed. She has a darling daughter of eight years who reminds me of my niece. Poor girl. Davy had never been so upset in his entire life. I don’t know when she died, but she can’t have been older than fifteen. It’s like God gave her a second chance in Aurora’s daughter—the likeness is so similar! I love them both, and I’m determined to try for marriage if Aurora’s interested. I don’t want to force her if she’s not.

Sincerely,

Ralph Notting

So Ralph was initially a nice guy with no poetic language who had to bear with his brother’s bad choices. I catch myself feeling bad for him. I eventually read up to the marriage in 2023. They go on their honeymoon to Venice while I stay with his parents. I smile as I remember that. They were really nice to me. The next entry has me dumbstruck.

30 May 2023

Dear Diary,

Lilian is gone! Aurora and I are absolutely devastated, crazed. We’ve looked everywhere, made phone calls, and still there’s nothing! I don’t know what to do! It’s been mere weeks and I’ve already lost our child, the thing most precious to her. What have I done! Why did I allow my love for her to supersede all else to the neglect of Lilian! Oh the poor poor girl! Aurora says it’s not my fault, but I swear I’ll never forgive myself until we find her and make sure she’s alright, safe in her mother’s arms.

Sincerely,

Ralph Notting

Now I don’t know what to think. He either clearly lied to his diary, or…something else happened I’m still not sure about. I have no choice but to read on, for I am now determined to discover the truth, whatever it may be.

So I read. They spent years trying to find me. They had given up all hope of ever doing so. Then, after a year-long gap of entries, Ralph explains everything. He hadn’t written in a year because his every minute was consumed with the emergency—he could take no break to write. He was walking home from work one day when he caught sight of smoke issuing from a small slum downtown apartment building. It was consumed in a blaze of fire. He acted on instinct and ran inside, calling for help.

He was only able to save one person, who was dying quickly—me. Reeking of drugs and smoke, bruised, scarred, flesh burnt away to the bone in several places, I lay unconscious in his trembling arms. The ambulance showed up and said it was hopeless. I was done for. But Ralph absolutely refused to accept this and hurried home in desperation.

After a full year of work, I was still living, though barely so—reliant on twenty different machines, cords jammed in all over my body, monitors regulating everything. The entries caught up and resumed at one per day. Still, Ralph worked feverishly, though he didn’t say how.

He did say that Davy died in that fire. He did say that he believed Davy kidnapped me out of desire for his daughter Joanna. He’d been eyeing me greedily ever since the wedding day. Ralph also said that Mom died of heartbreak in 2036.

First I grieve for Mom. No tears come, but my heart is sick. Then, 2036!! I am shocked. How did I stay in here like this for so long? Am I really over thirty-six years old? What year is it now? If only I had a mirror to look into, to see! I drop the book and stumble around the warehouse, scrounging through drawers and filtering through the piles of junk lining the walls.

Finally I find a rusted rear-view mirror attached to a decrepit junked car. I look the same as I always did—thirteen and glowing. How? I need an explanation.

Then as I return to the diary and flip to the next page, a sheaf of paper falls out, along with a photograph. The latter catches my eye first: it’s our first family picture, dated May of 2023. Ralph stands beside Mom, myself standing in front of the gap between them clutching him tight. I still like his smile. My face in the photo looks the same as my face does now. In fact, in looking at my reflection in the mirror again, I am identical to that girl in the picture.

In the sheaf, I find blueprints—plans. Plans impossible to read, but easy to deduce. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.

The final entry in the final book is dated 2068, in which he states I should wake up self-sufficient in about five years.

There is no more denying it, for it stares me right in the face.

Ralph saved my life, and made me into an unchanging machine.

Small wonder I am never hungry.

Scattered images in the purgatory between dream and consciousness pierced my aching head as I awoke, sore and disoriented. Cow shit like smelling salts bringing me back to the land of the living.

I looked around at the wide open enclosure of what looked to be a barn. Hay piled to the rusted steel roof on all four sides. Old John Deere tractors that looked as though they hadn’t been touched in decades sitting between two old dirty work stations with saws, screwdrivers, and nails sprawled like the after-effect of a mid-west tornado.

“Where the fuck am I?” I thought. “Jesus, what happened?”

The images were still like white noise coming from a TV with barely any reception. The figures were there. So were movements. But the details weren’t clear. Christ, my head was splitting. I got up and walked like a 3 a.m drunk after being thrown out of a bar, all the way to the two large barn doors. I pushed on them. Nothing. There was a small split where sunlight creeped in. I could see what looked to be a chain on the outside. That would explain it.

Panic was sitting in my chest. I slid down the barn door and sat on the ground, trying to slow my racing heart. Trying to remember. Trying to solve the mental puzzle. With my hands in front of my eyes. My eyes closed tight, concentrating deep on my thoughts. The images began to clear like the calming of rippling water.

Me and Jack Langley sitting in his Buick, parked in the tall grass in front of the Geary’s mansion on Roseberry Hill. Both of us with ski masks on. Both of us laughing, smoking cigarettes, thinking that it was too easy. Too goddamn simple to break into this house, steal whatever valuables they had and skip town. Too good to be true. Then I remembered what my father said before the cancer took him. That when things seemed too good to be true, it’s probably because they were.

We walked out into the cool evening air, with a brilliant orange flame setting over the western hilltops of Annandale. With a rag wrapped tightly around my wrist, I broke the glass above the doorknob, reached in and unlocked it from the other side.

Inside, the house was quiet. Dark and still. Then I remembered a gunshot ringing through the graveyard silence, sounding as loud as artillery rounds deep in the jungles of Quang Tri. I turned around and saw blood trickle down Jack’s head like a scarlet constrictor before he fell back down the stairs.

Then there was the fat man. 300 pounds if he was a pound, putting my head in the crook of his arm. A head that he could have popped like a cork had he wanted to, but instead, he put a needle in my arm and dragged me off to a shiny black corvette, where he threw me in the back like a rag doll.

There was another image, like a word on the tip of a tongue. It was there, but not there. Close, yet a thousand miles away. A face. A face at the window of the car, as my consciousness slipped into the ether. My head leaned against the window, and I saw a face. His face. Yes. His face.

It was my mother’s shit head husband. Frankie Laroque. He was screaming something. His hands behind his back, before he was thrown into another car. Christ, I thought. Where was Frankie? What happened to him?

Frankie, the greasy fucking bartender at The Dollar who got my mother to elope and marry him in Vegas while high as a kite on methamphetamines. Good choice, mah. You got yourself a real stand-up guy. A real father figure.

He was screaming, “Hurt him! Hurt him! Or was it, don’t hurt him?” I don’t know.

Then I heard a rattle behind me. Someone was unlocking the chain. The door opened and Frankie was thrown to the ground. Soft ridiculing laughter could be heard before the door closed, and the chain, again, locked. The sun too bright to see any faces. Just sharp dressed shadows.

Frankie’s hands were tied behind his back, and his face was worse for wear. Like a fucking steamroller had run over it. His left eye was swollen shut, a plethora of purples and greens, and blacks swirling like a vortex. Dried blood stained his ears, nose, and lips. He was crying. “I’m sorry, Jamie. I’m so sorry. Jesus, I’m stupid. I’m so goddamned stupid.”

“What, Frank? What the hell is going on here?”

“I-I-I,” He stuttered. “I-I sold you out. Okay? I sold you out, and now we’re fucked!”

“What are you talking about, Frank? What the hell did you do?”

He was crying like a baby. This big grown man. 6 foot 3, 220 lbs, weeping like a teething newborn.

“What did you do, Frank? Tell me what you did?” I grabbed him by the scruff of his wife beater and picked him up to his feet. He wouldn’t look at me. He stared at the straw and the shit on the ground. “Look at me, Frank. LOOK AT ME!”

Finally, he listened. But his eyes took the anger right out of me. Like a punch to the gut, I knew he was telling the truth. I didn’t know what he did, but we weren’t getting out of this barn. I let him go. “I-I-I’m sorry, Jamie. They swore they wouldn’t hurt you. They swore they wouldn’t hurt me if I told em who’d been, ya know, ripping them off.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Kid. Your head’s so far up your ass, you can’t see that you ain’t as smart as you think. Young punks and their God complex”

“What? What are you talking about, Frank? Speak English.”

“You were stealing from the wrong people, son. And having your drug riddled fucking mom as your confidante wasn’t exactly an Einstein move, was it?”

He stopped for a second, then continued.

“Look kid. I was in trouble. Big trouble. Debt that I couldn’t repay in ten lifetimes that was gathering interest by the day. Your mom told me one night that you were stealing money from the same guys, and I saw an opportunity man. I saw an opportunity to give them information. To provide them with something.”

“Oh. Jesus. Oh Christ. We’re dead.”

“They swore they wouldn’t hurt you, Jamie. They’d just ask for the money back, that’s all. They might rough you up a little, but not this. And they told me my slate would be wiped clean. I’d be free. I’d be good.”

I looked at Frankie, and then the chain rattled again. The door swung open. I didn’t even look up. I just stared at the shit and dirt on the ground, knowing full-well that I’d be sleeping underneath it soon.

“Way to go, mah. You picked a real stand-up guy”

I came to suddenly, the blackness seeping away from my vision as adrenaline started to race through my veins. My hands were bound behind my back, handcuffs digging into my wrists, but the pain barely even registered past the panic. I couldn’t move from where I sat, bound to the pole at my back with a light shining directly down on me. Everything outside the ring of light was lost to the darkness.

The air was thick with the smells of hay and manure. Cicadas chirped beyond the walls in the still night air and I heard the gentle scuffing of someone, or something, moving not far away.

I heard large doors open somewhere behind me before they swung shut yet again. Heavy footsteps came ever closer until they stood before me.

It was Ryan, my new stepdad. He’d married my mother nearly a month ago, but I didn’t really know him very well. He was a tall man, with salt and pepper hair and average build. He liked to laugh and overall seemed friendly, which was a pleasant surprise. I was told he was an attorney, but at this moment I wasn’t entirely sure which side of the law he was on. He looked down at me with calm, knowing eyes and a solemn expression.

“Ryan?” I asked in disbelief, “What’s going on?”

He shrugged, so slight a motion that I nearly missed it entirely.

“This isn’t how I wanted to do this, but you gave me no choice when you walked in on me and Vanessa. I couldn’t have you spoiling things, so I had to resort to…extreme measures.”

His words brought back a fuzzy memory. I’d come home early and walked in on Ryan talking with a young woman I’d never seen before. I remember being outraged, thinking he was cheating on my mother already. Before I’d been able to say anything, I’d felt a sharp pain in my neck, and everything had gone black. Had he drugged me? Was he going to kill me to keep his dirty little secret? Where was my mom?

“Where’s my mom?” I asked, my mind locking on the singular question.

“Your mother is around here somewhere. I’m sure you’ll see her soon.”

A knowing smile touched Ryan’s features as he made a ‘come here’ motion at the shadows behind me. It only took a second for another figure to appear, a tall, blonde woman in a police uniform. My heart sank into my stomach at the sight of her. Presented with a lawyer and an officer in this old barn, likely in the middle of nowhere…what on earth were they going to do to me?

“Do you know why you’re here, Jacob?” the woman asked sternly, her gaze locking on my own and holding steady. I shook my head, a cold sweat breaking out on my palms. What did they find?

She made an unhappy sound, frowning slightly, and bent to my level, her eyes still locked on my own.

“I’ve heard things about you, Mr. Reeves,” she said slowly as an unseen figure behind me unlocked my cuffs, “I’ve heard you have the uncanny ability to get yourself into lots of trouble. That you are a naughty boy.”

The purr at her last words made me freeze, uncertain. My brow furrowed as somewhere in the area, music began to play.

“SURPRISE!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY JAKE!!”

People swarmed in from every direction. All of them friends and coworkers I was close with. It seemed, in everything going on, I had completely forgotten about my own 21st birthday. My stepfather winked at me conspiratorially as the officer began to strip. I lost him in the crowd shortly thereafter.

The party was a blast, going on late into the night, but nothing would top the relief I had felt when I realized they hadn’t found the bodies.

Luckily injectable anything is something I've built a physiological tolerance to.

The dose they gave they acted as though would normally put out a horse, so they leave me to the coma they think I'm in with what reminds me of a nicotine pouch attached to my left boob.

The world's different when you're supposed to be knocked out and get to view things from a 3rd person perspective.

They- whoever "they" are , leave the car.

I hear a door shut from afar and peak open the eye they left smashed against the driver side passenger door.

Nobody's in sight.

My legs are itching, toes tingling .. Feels like a fire is being stoked underneath me.

Fuck this charade its time to bounce!

They really had confidence in whatever they gave me , they left the child saftey locks off.

I can feel my heart beating in slow motion which is weird since I don't think I've ever ran this fast in my life.

The road's pebbles bury themselves in my bare feet but this barley phases me.

My toes get caught underneath my stride from some pothole my tunnel vision left out ; the fall came at perfect timing as the road was turning sending me into a shrub filled ditch.

An exact replica of the car I just ditched turns the corner going the way I came.

My in laws face pressed against the same window mine was , except I don’t think they're going to be getting up when they're left in the heat with the windows up.

My bloody knee has already scabbed up, my energy is gaining , and my gut is telling me to keep running in the opposite direction.

My gut also told me to not " speak my mind " and to " forever hold my peace ".

Guess I'm gonna have to bail that stupid mother fucker out of this mess so I can get a couple things off my chest.

True, she was new to our family and she has a strong position as my stepmom. But I have a strong intuition and her vibes were toxic. Yes, she was beautiful and soft spoken and my father loved her. But I could tell that her intentions were going left! I watched her from a distance. She never looked directly in my eyes. No, I didn't call her mom. One night she brought home something called Amsterdam. The name alone sounds like torture. In a joking way she convinced my father to give us each a little shot glass full. I don't drink, it affects me funny. My father begged for me to drink it to be social with her. So we did. When I woke up, i I was in my neighbors garage sore and tied to a chair. I saw a very blurry stepmom and my neighbor was about to perform what looked like surgery on me. I heard a noise that sounded like a drill for dentistry. Still blurry, I saw her lean forward at my arm. I felt a stinging pain that felt like a needle. I just knew I was doomed. I felt this pain for about five minutes. Terrible, terrible pain. The whole time I was wondering about my father did they torture and killed him first. My neighbor bandaged me up and untied my hands and body. My father walks out. I said, "What the fudge!" Suddenly, my stepmom removed the bandage. I looked at my arm. I saw a huge tattoo of my mother's face on my arm with the words "I will love you forever". My father said now she will always be around. I couldn't for the life of me understand their tactics but I gave them an "E" for effort. It was the best gift I could've ever received. I cried, then I smiled.